


as the poets say

by Petr1chor



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Acts of Kindness, Baking, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluffy fluff fluff fluff, M/M, Mindless Fluff, Pining Enjolras, Pre-Relationship, Smitten Enjolras (Les Misérables)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:22:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29292057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petr1chor/pseuds/Petr1chor
Summary: Grantaire off handedly mentions that he misses his mom's muffins and Resident Disaster Gay Enj who bakes them for him. (He's not in love or anything, not at all)
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 66





	as the poets say

**Author's Note:**

> Hi :)   
> Another tumblr prompt fill  
> Enjoy!

Enjolras cursed as he spilled flour onto the countertop, shaking it off his hand and setting the jar down with more force than necessary.

“Aw, Enjolras, go easy on the jar. It’s not its fault that you suck at this,” Cosette said, almost melodic. He was going to strangle her.

“You promised you would help!”

“I _am_ helping,” she said, her mood not dimmed in the slightest, “I never promised not to tease you about it though.”

Enjolras muttered something along the lines of _why must I be subjected to snarky Disney princesses, Disney is a terrible company anyway_ and continued to sift the dry ingredients into the wet ones.

Cosette was humming softly, and Enjolras sighed. She had helped him. He didn’t know the first thing about baking. She even brought muffin tins from home. It hadn’t even occurred to Enjolras that muffins would be made in different dishes than cakes.

Cosette took the mixture from him after he spilled a large dollop onto his own foot. Carefully, she ladled it into the tin.

“So, why the sudden interest in baking?” she asked, and Enjolras knew her well enough that the lack of inflection was deliberate.

He felt the back of his neck heat up and he busied himself with wiping down the counters. “I just wanted to do something new. Everyone’s always telling me I need to do something other than my coursework and Les Amis stuff all the time.”

“Fair,” she said, handing the tin to him so he could stick it in the oven, “But it’s been years since people have been trying to convince you to get a life.”

She had taken off her apron and hopped up onto the counter, hair escaping the bun she had put it in. Enjolras assumed he would appreciate her beauty more if she didn’t have an evil expression on her face.

Enjolras quickly turned around. Maybe he could get her some beer. Beer? It was noon. Did Cosette even drink beer? Did they even keep beer at home?

Enjolras opened the fridge and pulled out a jug of mysterious yellow liquid and poured it into two glasses, handing one to Cosette, who was watching him intently.

Enjolras took a sip, silently hoping it wasn’t alcoholic. It was pineapple juice. He exhaled.

“So,” Cosette began, “This has nothing to do with what Grantaire said at the meeting the other day?”

Enjolras took a large gulp, promptly choking.

“What did Grantaire say? I don’t know.”

He had never been a very good liar. It was usually not worth all the trouble, but right now he wished he had been a little more of a problem child, if only to keep that smug look off of Cosette’s face.

“Enj please-“

The front door swung open, cutting through the stillness of the apartment with chatter.

“Oh my god you would not-“ Courfeyrac cut himself off by sniffing the air as Combeferre and Grantaire followed him in.

“Grantaire! What are you doing here?” Enjolras squeaked, instantly regretting it when he saw a flash of hurt pass Grantaire’s face.

“I mean-“

“No sweat, Apollo, I just wanted to read Ferre’s annotations on The Gift of Death. I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.”

“No! Pineapple juice?” Enjolras said, cursing everyone in his life who had ever called him eloquent.

Grantaire raised his eyebrow, and Enjolras started pulling glasses out of the cabinet.

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac began, his voice already getting excited and high, “Have you been _baking?_ ”

“No,” Combeferre said, looking horrified, confused and disappointed in quick succession.

“You know you’re not allowed to bake!”

Grantaire was looking at the three of them, while Cosette giggled wildly into her glass.

“Why isn’t he allowed to bake?” Grantaire asked, making Courfeyrac grin ear to ear.

“Wasn’t the last time you baked when Feuilly joined Les Amis and you wouldn’t stop talking about him for two weeks?” Courfeyrac said, while also having some bizarre non-verbal conversation with Cosette.

Enjolras made an incoherent noise and decided that the pineapple juice needed his attention more.

“That doesn’t explain why he isn’t allowed to bake.”

Combeferre smiled, “He didn’t use a baking sheet, we were scraping charred cookie of the bottom of the oven for days. Every time we used the oven it smelled like something was burning.”

Grantaire made a noise of surprise before laughing in earnest, and Enjolras stopped at the sight. His teeth were crooked and his eyes were crinkled and he did not want to look away.

“Yep,” Courfeyrac said, “The bitter smell of old burnt cookies and Enjolras’ idiocy.”

“Hey!” Enjolras said, snapping back to reality.

The oven’s timer went off, pinging loud enough to make Enjolras jump and slam his head into the open cabinet door. Grantaire started forward, with an amused curl of his lip, but checking on him regardless.

“Why were you baking, Enj?” Combeferre asked.

“Also, what were you baking,” Coufeyrac added.

“Uhhh,” Enjolras mumbled as Grantaire ran his fingers over his scalp in gentle circles.

It was Cosette who spoke, finally.

“They’re cherry muffins. R mentioned how his mother used to make them, and that he hasn’t eaten homemade ones in years. So Enjolras made them.”

Enjolras wanted to look away, to look down, to stare at his shoes, to do anything but look at Grantaire. But he was right there. His hand was in his hair.

Grantaire’s face crumbled. He was looking right at Enjolras. He had never experienced it from this close. His hand slid from his hair to cup his neck, and he pressed his lips to his forehead.

Enjolras closed his eyes. His cheeks were flaming, and he had unconsciously grabbed ahold of the front of the jacket Grantaire was wearing. Grantaire gently tugged him into a hug, turning his face to press his lips to his temple.

“Thank you,” he said, softly, “Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Do you like smittenjolras as much as i do
> 
> Kudos and comments are appreciated!! <3


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